


Snow Day

by berlynn_wohl



Series: The Hiddlebatch Series [1]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Shower Sex, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of a snowstorm, Tom and Benedict shout out Jeopardy answers and fight over unexpected scarcities, in between bouts of sexual athleticism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Day

 

 

 

 

**1.**

Pint in hand, Tom turned from the bar into the crowd, taking care not to spill. He was almost immediately jostled by Jason as he passed.

“Don’t go getting shit-faced, tonight, Tom,” Jason shouted over the din of the crew, packed too tight in this unassuming, unsuspecting tavern. “I need your A-game tomorrow.”

Tom looked hurt. “When have I ever not brought my A-game?” Just then he saw Benedict approaching. “Ben. Benedict! Have you ever seen me not bring my A-game?”

Benedict looked thoughtfully into the middle distance, then admitted, “Were I compelled to reduce my description of your game to a single letter, I do believe that letter would be ‘A.’”

Jason narrowed his eyes and pointed at the two of them with his first two fingers. “You two…” he began, but instead of finishing his accusation, he let himself be called away to the table that the producer had staked out.

“What’ve you got there?” Tom said, indicating Benedict’s drink. Benedict put his hand to his ear and drew his brows together. “I said _what have you got there_? Scotch and Coke?”

Benedict leaned in so he could speak more candidly. “Just the Coke, actually. I’m driving.” He swirled the liquid in the glass so the ice cubes clinked. “But if anyone asks, there’s scotch in it. Can’t have people thinking I’m uncool.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Two hours and two more pints later, Tom caught sight of Benedict sliding out of a booth and picking up his motorcycle helmet. He trotted over and said, “Ben, give us a ride?”

“I don’t have a helmet for you, mate, sorry.”

“What did I say before? All your secrets are safe with me.” He made a wide circle with one hand as he said this. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“How drunk _are_ you?”

“I’m really not. I’ve only had three. I’m just exhausted. Please, just give us a ride so I can get to bed before half-two?”

“Just this once,” Benedict conceded with a scolding wag of one finger. “You won’t need to be up by six anyway. Didn’t you hear? It’s going to snow.”

David, the producer, overheard this and shouted, “No, it is _not_ going to snow. I’ve got a schedule to keep and it _can_ not, it _must_ not, and therefore it _will_ not snow.”

“Whatever you say. ‘Night, all.” And everyone who happened to hear him called back, “‘Night, Ben!” He swore he heard one prat say “Benny,” but he didn’t pursue the matter.

“Put your hands here,” he said when Tom was firmly seated behind him, and indicated his sides. Instead, Tom leaned forward, wrapped his arms round Benedict’s waist, and rested his cheek on Benedict’s shoulder.

“You _are_ drunk.”

“I’m not, I just really need some sleep.”

“You fall asleep on this thing, you won’t wake up.”

Every few minutes on the ride home, Tom gave Benedict an extra little squeeze, just to let him know that he was still awake back there. They arrived at the hotel without incident. Once Benedict had shut off the engine, Tom groaned at the thought of having to make his way up to his room.

“Come on, then.” Benedict slung one of Tom’s arms over his shoulder and helped him up the stairs. He fumbled in Tom’s pockets for his room key.

“I can find it myself, you naughty thing,” Tom protested, slapping Benedict’s hand away from his ribs as it searched for an inside pocket. “Didn’t even buy me dinner first…”

This being a no-name hotel in a no-name village, it was an actual key, not a card. Tom got it in the lock on only the second try. Benedict supported him through the door and into the room, and tried not to let him flop too hard as he guided him down onto the spacious bed. He bent down to remove Tom’s shoes.

“Stop treating me like I’m drunk,” Tom snapped. “I can get my own--” He made a valiant effort to sit up, and plucked ineffectually at his shoelaces before collapsing back on the bed. “I might,” he said, “be just the tiniest bit tipsy.”

Benedict unlaced and removed each shoe, still cradling his helmet with his other hand. “Will you be alright if I leave you here alone?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m right next door. Just call me if you need anything. Your mobile’s right here.”

The room was freezing, so Benedict flicked the dial by the door and the heater clicked on. He had his hand on the doorknob when he heard Tom giggle in the dark.

“What is it?”

“You’re such a bloody gentleman. How is it you haven’t got a girlfriend? I haven’t seen you with a girl since…” Tom trailed off as he tried, and failed, to remember if Benedict had had a steady girlfriend at all, since they’d known each other.

Benedict should have said, “Go to sleep, Tom,” and left. But the fact that it was Tom compelled him to wander back to the foot of the bed. “Probably for the same reason _you_ haven’t got a girlfriend, despite your, er, obvious charms. It’s been near impossible to find someone whom I can be certain wants me for me, and not for…”

“The new hot celebrity. You don’t have to tell me; I’ve been living the same…shit, I almost said ‘nightmare.’ No, it’s been so much…I’ve been so blessed. But at the same time, when you’re where we are, everyone just wants to hustle you, you know?”

Benedict nodded, for no reason, since it was pitch black. “It’s like, everyone wants to be my friend these days, so why is it I’ve never felt so…”

“Lonely.”

“Yeah. God, listen to me. I really need to go; I’ll be reciting Morrissey lyrics next.”

Tom slapped at a random empty space on the mattress. “Stay if you want. Did I tell you I met Morrissey? Ran into him when I was in L.A.”

“Yeah? What’s he like, then?”

“You might not believe this, but I found him a bit mopey.”

“Never would have guessed.”

“Listen, I just want to tell you -- sit down, sit down -- I just want to tell you how glad I am that we’re working on this project together. It means a lot to me…”

“I know, mate, I know. Come on, you’re embarrassing both of us.”

“ _It really means a lot to me_ ,” Tom insisted on continuing, “to be your friend. It helps to have someone who’s pretty much in the same boat as me.”

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. You do get sentimental when you’re drunk, though. I beg your pardon -- when you’re the tiniest bit tipsy.”

Tom rolled his head to the left, in the general direction of where the mattress had dipped when Benedict sat down. “For ten years it was enough for me to just show up and be a decent actor and earn enough money to eat. Usually. Now I’m a fucking millionaire -- at least that’s what my agent assures me -- and I’ve lost control of my whole life. ‘We need you to gain twenty pounds for this role, Tom.’ ‘Can you slim down for us, Tom?’ ‘You’ll be spending six weeks in Moldova to shoot this, Tom.’ _And!_ ” He clutched at his scalp with both hands. “I will be damned if I can remember what my natural hair colour is anymore!”

Benedict had to laugh at this. “Tell me about it. I may not have to worry about the rent these days, but I could do without spending half my life with my head in a sink. Unlike Robert fucking Downey Junior, who apparently just rolls out of bed looking like Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t knock him, now, he’s my mate.” Tom scolded. “It’s still a lot of fun, though,” he admitted, and when he smiled, Benedict’s eyes had adjusted enough to see the white gleam of his teeth in the dark. Tom lifted one hand, only to drop it on Benedict’s thigh, intending it to be a gesture of camaraderie. Almost immediately, though, he pulled it away. “Sorry. Don’t know what I did that for.”

“No worries,” said Benedict. And so Tom put it back, squeezing his knee for good measure. He laughed again. “I was just thinking of something. When you were a kid, did you…I mean…did you ever experiment?”

Benedict snorted. “An Old Etonian asking an Old Harrovian that? What do _you_ think?”

“Heh, yeah. Suppose we all had a crafty mutual wank after lights-out. Just once or twice, mind you.”

“Of course. Didn’t you say a minute ago that you wanted to get some sleep?”

“I am. I’m going to fall asleep right now. Watch me.” And Tom fell silent.

Benedict was waiting for the punchline, but a few seconds later he heard soft snoring in the darkness. When he gently nudged Tom’s hand off his leg, he felt no resistance. He heaved a sigh of relief. That conversation could have veered into territory that was exponentially more awkward.

Despite their brief foray into high weirdness, shucking his motorcycle jacket and laying down next to Tom seemed much more appealing to Benedict at the moment than getting up to go to his own room, as close by as that might be. It was warm in here now. His own room would still be freezing. So he kicked his boots off and reclined next to Tom. He was asleep in ten seconds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**2.**

When Benedict awoke, the room was dimly illuminated by a sliver of light coming from between the curtains.

A sliver of _bright_ light.

“Shit. _Shit._ ” Benedict rolled off the bed and rifled through his jacket until he came up with his mobile. Half nine. “ _Shit._ ” But he had a text, from David. **You and Tom are off the hook today. Only interior shots. Stand by. If it warms up we will shoot at Columbia tomorrow.**

Benedict staggered to his feet and flicked open the curtain. In seven hours, snow had blanketed the car park and all the cars therein, unbroken save for one set of footprints and one pair of tire tracks. It rested in narrow sparkling strips on the bare branches of trees.

“Brilliant,” Benedict said to himself. He nearly jumped out of his skin when, from behind him, came a slurred “Wha’s brillent?”

“Christ, I forgot you were here,” Benedict said, clutching his chest.

“It’s _my_ room.”

“Your room looks like my room. It’s a hotel. I got a text from David. It’s officially a snow day.”

“That _is_ brilliant. I could use a holiday.” Tom propped himself up on his elbows. “What shall we do today?”

Benedict turned back and looked fondly at the bed. “I don’t know about you, but _I_ shall sleep for six to twelve more hours.”

“Hmm, I like the way you think, sir. The job’s yours.” Tom let his head fall back onto the pillow, and tilting gently to one side as the beatific look returned to his face.

But before Benedict could even think about how to go about getting the extra sleep -- whether he should pursue the matter here, or return to his own room -- his empty stomach made its presence known.

“Tom?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m going to see what I can do about acquiring some food.” Benedict sat on the corner of the bed long enough to get on his jacket and boots. “I’ll be back.”

“Hmm.”

With the remains of yesterday’s per diem, Benedict managed to procure two tinfoil-wrapped meals from the diner attached to the hotel, along with some silverware which he promised to return. (It helped that the waitress was charmed by his accent; although she was vaguely aware that some British people were shooting a movie nearby, she had no idea who that Benjamin Cucumber fellow was that the hostess had gushed to her about the other day.) He stopped by his room on the way back, for pyjama bottoms and his toothbrush. By the time he got the meals back to Tom’s room, they were ice-cold.

Benedict pinched Tom’s foot and wiggled it to wake him. Tom jerked away from the ticklish touch and curled up on his side with an annoyed grunt.

“Got some eggs. Sausages.” Benedict set the food on end of the bed, opened the curtains, and then fiddled with the coffee-maker whilst Tom dragged himself to a sitting position.

“These both the same?”

“Yeah. You want coffee?”

“Yeah.”

Tom took the tinfoil off one plate, and the two ate a few bites in silence. Then Tom said, “This is a bit weird. Snowed in. I feel like we should make a pillow fort or something.”

Benedict laughed at the silliness of this suggestion, which made Tom laugh as well. But when they made eye contact, Benedict could swear he saw something in Tom’s eyes that said _Come on, let’s_. For an instant, he considered saying something like, “Should we really?” But the possibility that he was misinterpreting Tom’s look held him back. Anyway, a pillow fort was the sort of thing that grownups thought would be a larf, but always turned out to be less fun than theorised.

Benedict turned away from Tom’s mischievous gaze as the coffee perked. He got up and poured Tom a cup.

“Aren’t you having any?”

“I’m going to try to get back to sleep after this.”

“Don’t blame you. I’ve got a script on my laptop I promised to read. Probably do that.”

“Hmm.”

After their cold, greasy meal, Benedict washed up, had a piss, changed into his pyjama bottoms, and flopped back on the bed. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s nice and warm in here, and my room’s an icebox right now.”

“Make yourself at home,” Tom said, switching on his laptop and settling in under the duvet.

“Home, what’s that? Oh, wait, I think I have a _vague_ memory of being home once.” He smiled a rueful smile, but was too sleepy and comfortable at the moment to sustain it, and dozed off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**3.**

The second time Benedict awoke that morning, it was to the sound of rain. He had just enough mental capacity to think, _Fuck, the rain’s going to wash the snow away, and it’ll be back to work. I could really use another day._

Then he noticed that the rain seemed to be coming from inside the hotel room. Which must mean that it wasn’t rain at all, but the shower. _That’s alright, then._

He sat up to work the crick out of his neck, and looking out the window was pleased to see that snow was still falling. He had another text, advising the cast and crew not to panic; food would be brought to all snow-bound parties.

Benedict set his mobile on the bedside table and thought about the cold snow falling just a few feet in front of him, and the warm shower being had just a few feet behind him. God knew he could use a shower himself. He thought about Tom being in there at the moment. All naked and wet and ensconced in steaming heat, in the midst of this foul weather.

 _Oh, fuck._ He had hoped this wouldn’t happen. It made things so complicated. He had been trying not to dwell on last night’s conversation. The things that were actually spoken were terrifying enough; the things left unspoken were too tantalising to bear thinking about.

He crept across the room, and found that Tom had left the bathroom door wide open. Had he simply not bothered to close it because Benedict had been asleep? Or was it meant to be an invitation, in case he woke up?

Well, based on everything else that hadhappened in the past twelve hours, it wouldn’t be completely unreasonable to speculate that it was the latter. He stood in the doorway and rehearsed a scenario two or three times in his head before proceeding.

He thought he’d planned the whole thing very carefully. He knew that when he wrenched the shower curtain open, it was likely to give Tom a good scare. That made it all the more fun, in a way, but he also understood that giving someone a fright on slippery porcelain was not without hazard. As he stepped toward the curtain, he bent his knees slightly and lowered his center of gravity, preparing to catch Tom if he needed to. Frankly, having Tom fall into his arms was just one more reason why the idea was so appealing. But if Tom was not interested, Benedict could laugh it off as a prank. He was prepared to do that convincingly.

What Benedict was _not_ prepared for, upon pulling back the curtain, was the sight of Tom standing there with a dildo in one hand.

“Fucking Christ,” Tom hissed, and his arm twitched twice; first, seemingly, to hide the thing behind his back, but then -- as if he knew how ridiculous it was to try to hide something that Benedict had obviously already seen -- to clutch it to his sternum, and try to cover it’s unmistakable shape with his hand. Benedict had been expecting that Tom would provide him with a brief, hilarious expression of terror, which would quickly change to relief and laughter when he realised who it was. Instead, both men were humiliated and Tom froze Benedict with a look of mixed incredulity and contempt. “What the fuck do you think you’re _doing_?”

“Oh God, sorry, I’m so sorry, I just thought it would be...” Benedict was having a difficult time completing an excuse, distracted as he was by the thing in Tom’s hand. Though he was trying to obscure it, it was apparent that it was of modest dimensions, nothing that would put Benedict to shame, and it had a suction cup on the bottom.

Benedict had one last chance to save this. He could slink away now, and they could both try to carry on with their lives and pretend this never happened, or he could go for broke, forge ahead, and -- if he was very lucky and had been interpreting Tom’s signals correctly -- salvage this scene and end it in a way that was, shall one say, pleasant for all concerned.

Thus, he adopted the most suavely, naughtily casual demeanor he could conjure, cocked an eyebrow, and said, “So what’s that for?”

“What do you _think_ it’s for, mate?” Tom said. Only on the word “for” did he muster a vocalisation. The rest was a shivery whisper.

Benedict laughed off Tom’s anger. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Well, I did, actually, I thought it would be a scream. But I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I only wanted to join you. I had no idea you’d have some, er, company already.”

“You wanted to...join me...?”

Briefly, Benedict considered saying something like, “I thought you might be amenable to that,” but the fact that Tom had not shouted him out of the bathroom or punched him in the fucking face for his audacity told him all he needed to know about Tom being amenable. It was only a matter of stepping into the shower. So he tugged on the knotted drawstring of his pyjama bottoms until it came free, and with just a nudge of his thumb at his hip they fell to the floor, and he got in.

It was a cosy space. He placed himself directly in front of Tom, and they were just about touching. In fact, as Tom’s chest heaved with each nervous breath, the crest of each inhalation caused the knuckles of his right hand -- the hand holding the toy -- to brush Benedict’s ribs. The shower spray bounced off each of their shoulders and splashed the other’s face and neck.

“Perhaps you could show me how you use that. If I haven’t just made it too crowded in here.”

“I don’t use it very often,” Tom blurted. “I shouldn’t have even brought it. If they’d opened my bags at the airport...”

“Shh, sh-sh-sh, you’re all flustered now.” Benedict put a hand on Tom’s head, smoothing a wet curl from his temple. “Just show me.”

“I need some room.”

Benedict side-stepped, and Tom stepped forward to occupy the newly-freed space. He looked at Benedict, then closed his eyes and quickly licked at the suction-cup base and stuck it to the tiled wall, just below waist-height. It stuck straight out and looked a bit comical, just protruding from the wall. No longer was it obscured by Tom’s hand; Benedict could see that it was a model intended to be…fairly realistic.

Next, Tom pivoted and bent down to retrieve the bottle in the little corner space -- not a shampoo bottle but a squeeze-bottle of lube. He held it up, like someone on a cooking show might brandish a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil in the general direction of the audience before sprinkling it into a pan, and squeezed it along the length of the toy. He stroked it just the way one would a cock, to spread the gel all around. He provided one more application to the head of it, then re-capped the bottle and set it back down.

At this point, Tom hesitated. He didn’t know if he could continue, right in front of Ben and everything. But Benedict gently urged him on, saying, “What’s the matter? Have you forgotten what you usually do next?”

Tom turned a hundred and eighty degrees, so he was facing away from the wall, and slowly -- partly by stepping back, partly by leaning in -- moved to mount the toy. He shut his eyes and looked away; Benedict closed in and corrected him, tilting Tom’s chin so they were face-to-face, and whispering, “Look at me while you do it.”

It was actually a bit easier with Benedict standing so close. Tom didn’t feel so much like he was on display. He pinched the toy behind its silicone glans and aimed it. Just by watching Tom’s face, particularly his mouth, Benedict could discern quite clearly the moment Tom was breached; he made a little noise when he exhaled that made Benedict’s cock twitch against Tom’s thigh. Tom looked down to see what had touched him, and promptly made another, similar noise.

Tom pressed his lips together as he slowly began to move, breathing heavily through his nose. Benedict couldn’t see much of the action, but he watched Tom’s face raptly, and enjoyed the way his movements caused their flanks to collide; the water made their skin slap softly on contact.

“I can’t see what you’re doing,” Benedict complained. “Why don’t you lift your leg up so I can get a better view.”

Tom’s left quadricep twitched, but it wasn’t until Benedict bent down to grip the inside of his thigh that Tom actually bent his knee. He held his leg up as Benedict took a half-step back to examine the proceedings. He guided one of Tom’s hands downward, and Tom soon got the hint and cupped his balls up and away to leave the view entirely unobstructed.

The angle, and Tom’s timidity, didn’t allow the thing to penetrate very deeply. Nonetheless, it was quite a sight, especially the way the crown of the toy stretched Tom’s opening just that little bit more as it moved in and out.

Benedict was still not quite satisfied. He grabbed Tom’s leg behind the knee, then slid it up to grip his calf, encouraging Tom to unbend his leg. “Come on,” he teased, “let’s see what that yoga allows you to do,” and he stretched Tom’s leg until his ankle was resting on Benedict’s shoulder.

Once he had both hands free again, Benedict used one to stroke Tom off whilst with the other, he felt for the place where the toy disappeared inside him. Tom gasped at Benedict’s fingers on his rim. But the touch was brief. Benedict removed the arm from between them to allow him to press closer, pushing Tom against the wall and forcing the toy more deeply inside him than ever. Tom gasped and swore, and Benedict gave him only half a second to recover before clutching him tightly, pulling him almost all the way off the thing, then tilting forward, pushing Tom right back onto it and impaling him once more. All the while, he jerked Tom off with high, tight strokes, working the foreskin over the glans, making it produce wet little sounds.

This was the first time that Tom had ever experienced being penetrated without having any control over the speed or depth. With only one foot on the ground, he was forced to cling to Benedict to steady himself, and so long as he remained so close, he had no way of lowering his left leg and regaining his balance. Benedict would remain in complete control for as long as he chose to continue pushing Tom against the wall and pulling him back again. It was just the right amount of too much, and Tom’s eyes fluttered closed.

Benedict briefly considered kissing Tom, but decided against it; he didn’t want anything to obstruct Tom’s shivery breaths and sharp little gasps. Instead, he pushed his face into the crook of Tom’s neck and sucked at it.

“You’re gonna make me,” was all Tom could get out, and three thick ropes of come erupted over Benedict’s fist. Benedict anticipated that Tom would soon go completely wobbly-kneed, and pushed him as hard against the wall as he could, until Tom finished ejaculating and begged not to be touched anymore, at which point Benedict could then move his left hand from Tom’s cock to just under his arse, to hold him up and help him gently disengage.

Tom uttered one final cry when the toy slipped from him, and the moment he was allowed to put his leg down, he shuddered and collapsed into Benedict’s arms. “Oh fuck,” he whispered, “oh fuck. Oh. What just happened.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got you. When you’re ready we’ll have you stand up straight, and get ourselves cleaned up.”

“Hnn.”

After a few moments, Tom said, “Alright, I’m ready.” As he pulled away, and stood on his own two feet, he saw the streaks of his spunk on Benedict’s belly. Some of it was also clinging to him. “Yeah, we better clean up, hm.”

Benedict leaned out of the shower to tug a flannel from the towel rack, and soaped it as he held it under the spray. He cleaned himself, then squeezed the flannel out, then scrubbed Tom all down his front, taking care near his sensitised cock, then squeezed it out again. He made a twirling gesture with one finger, to indicate that Tom should turn. He pushed on Tom’s shoulder to encourage him to lean forward and brace himself with his hands on the wall. Then, with one hand he parted Tom’s buttocks and used the flannel in the other to clean away the lube. Having done this, he couldn’t resist dabbing at that pink, loosened hole with his soapy thumb.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Tom asked, his voice a panicked rasp.

Benedict chuckled. “No, you’ve had plenty for the time being. I’m just having a little feel. You’re so soft and loose right now.”

Tom cringed with embarrassment. “I don’t use it very often, honestly...”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’ll be like that for a short while, naturally. No one’s challenging your general bodily integrity.” Benedict flicked the tap, and the shower spray was reduced to a trickle before dying out. “Now if you can convince your wobbly legs to let you step out, I’ll dry you.”

*****

Once again Benedict found himself helping a woozy Tom into bed, and once again he didn’t mind the burden one bit. He laid Tom down gently across the duvet, with his legs dangling off the edge. They were both still naked, and Benedict’s erection was still throbbing, painfully now and in desperate need of relief. As Benedict got his arm out from under the now-supine Tom and stood up straight, Tom made a grab for that hard cock and gave it a couple of lazy strokes.

“Actually, I was thinking that maybe...” Benedict kneeled on the edge of the mattress, then stretched himself alongside Tom, but somewhat higher, so his cock was quite near Tom’s face. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. But I haven’t...”

“I’m certain you’ll do fine,” Benedict said. “It’s fairly intuitive.” He leaned forward, so that with just the slightest craning of his neck, Tom could easily take Benedict into his mouth.

His position and the post-orgasm drowsiness limited Tom’s mobility, so he was all lips and tongue around the glans, giving it open-mouthed kisses as Benedict, on his side, rocked just slightly back and forth. His cock was nearly the same colour as Tom’s mouth. Benedict was enjoying the sight very much, and rather than shove it down Tom’s throat, as might be the inclination of someone less civilised, he stroked the shaft himself with just thumb and forefinger whilst he watched Tom mouth sloppily at the head.

Benedict pulled back for a moment to reposition himself, Tom followed blindly, trying to keep it on his tongue. After seeing that, a few seconds more was all it took. He ejaculated half-in and half-outside Tom’s mouth, and so got to watch him swallow some, and also have some dribble down his cheek, which was a very satisfying sight. Tom was still so dazed, he didn’t seem to mind either result, and left it to Benedict to tidy him up once again; this time, by gathering up the stray spunk with two fingers and then slipping the fingers into Tom’s mouth; Tom suckled on them with continued lazy eagerness. He only stopped to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

“I can’t believe we just did that. When we were in the shower, I thought we were going to die. Just slip and fall and crack our heads open, and that would be the end. Can you imagine the headlines when we were found that way?”

“Certainly the Daily Mail would run a piece scolding us for eschewing shower mats and setting a horrendous example for Britain’s young people.”

Tom budged up until he and Benedict were face to face. With a hand on the back of his neck, he guided Benedict to him for a kiss. Even after all they had done, it was electric. Sparks of pleasure shot down to Benedict’s sated cock when he thought of how he was putting his mouth where his cock had just been. No other parts of them were touching, only their mouths, obscenely wet and pink and gusting hot breath, and perhaps they had thought for a moment that their orgasms had satisfied them, but now they were hungry again, hungry for something...

And then there was a thunderous knock at the door.

Tom’s long limbs splayed in all directions as he somersaulted over the far side of the bed. Benedict laughed when he popped up to peer over the edge.

“What are you hiding for, you clot? This is your room.”

“Yes, my room, in which I am naked with another naked man,” Tom said in a stage whisper.

“Christ’s sake.” Another knock. Benedict shouted, “Coming!” and immediately regretted his choice of words. He darted into the bathroom to retrieve his pyjama bottoms, then put on the first shirt he encountered on the floor. It was Tom’s. He answered the door as if nothing untoward were happening. It was a woman from craft services.

“I thought this was Tom’s room,” she said.

“It is,” Benedict said, stone-faced. “My heater’s on the blink.”

“That would explain why you didn’t answer a minute ago. Well, here’s lunch. Just cold sandwiches and Sprite, sorry. This whole goddamn town’s come to a standstill. First snow they’ve had here in ten years. They’re trying to wrangle some snow-plows from Springfield. Meanwhile, Jason is shooting interiors at the mansion.”

“Naturally. Well, sandwiches are just fine. Thank you.” (Thinking, to himself, _No tea, forced to live like savages in this country._ )

“Where is Tom, by the way?”

“He’s in the bath. You can come see if you like.” Benedict started to swing the door open, for effect.

The craft services woman shielded her eyes, as if the bath were right there in the front room. “No, that’s fine, thanks, take your word for it. We’ll bring some dinner around seven. Later.” And she picked up her insulated bags and continued down the corridor, her boots still crunching with snow.

Benedict shut and locked the door, and Tom stood up from his hiding place and came round the bed, still naked, to take the brown paper sack Benedict offered him.

“How do you _do_ that?” Tom said.

Benedict put on his best Laurence Olivier and boomed, “Acting, dear boy.”

“Have to try it sometime.” Tom opened his paper sack, and immediately made a gagging noise. “Does yours have mustard on it?”

“Nope.”

Tom thrust his sandwich out at Benedict. “Then trade me, darling.”

 

 

 

 

 

**4.**

Dinner was provided in a similar fashion. Cold once again; pasta salad this time. Tom and Benedict ate it, shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, and shouted out _Jeopardy_ answers with their mouths full. During the adverts, they made small talk about how strange it had become, just to be allowed to eat something as loaded with carbs as pasta salad during a film shoot, and what a relief it was to be working on an independent project where there was not a personal trainer or nutritionist in sight.

After _Jeopardy_ , _Wheel of Fortune_ came on, and Benedict remarked, “Odd. When I was working in L.A., _Jeopardy_ came on after _Wheel of Fortune_.”

Tom raised one eyebrow. “Dear me, did Abrams wrap for the day so early that you actually had the chance to see which one came on first? We were never done that early, working on _Avengers_.”

“Oh, well in my day we ‘ad it toof,” Benedict said mockingly, in a Yorkie accent. “Our dad used to wake oos oop at four o’clock every morning, ‘alf an hour before we went to bed, we had to clean the lake...”

“Alright, alright. Calm down, Hollywood.”

“You can’t call me that! You’ve made just as many Hollywood films as I have. A minute ago we were having a mutual lament about personal trainers.”

“That’s as may be, but at least _I_ haven’t gone completely Hollywood, _Hollywood_.”

Benedict rummaged in the carrier bag that their dinner had come in. “Can we not have this argument? If for no other reason than there’s now something much more important for us to fight over?”

“What’s that?”

“They only gave us one pudding.”

Tom’s eyes got wide as he looked in the bag. At the bottom, amongst the extra serviettes and an unused plastic knife, there was but one small clamshell container, containing one single slice of banana bread.

They both reached for it at the same time; Tom managed to get a grip on it first. Even though Benedict soon had one of Tom’s arms pinned and was biting the other one, Tom thought he could get the container open and shove the whole slice in his mouth one-handed. He was foiled by the sticker which secured the thing shut. Benedict tackled him, or really just sort of collapsed on him, but crushed the air from his lungs one way or the other. Once Benedict had a grip on the container, he rolled so that he held it under him and could open it without Tom being able to get at it. Evenly matched as they were, they wrestled in this manner for another forty-five seconds, until Tom, still empty-handed, let his muscles go slack, and panted, “Er…we _are_ going to fuck, aren’t we?”

“Is this a ploy to get the pudding from me?”

“No, it’s just your hard-on pressing into my hip made me think of it.”

“Oh dear, I have got one, haven’t I? Well yes, we can certainly do that, if you like.”

“Perhaps fight about this later?”

“My my, sex over pudding. Now who’s gone Hollywood?” Benedict tossed the container across the room, where it lodged between the bureau and the wall.

At that point they were already well entangled, it was just a matter of kissing instead of shoving.

“Is the lube still in the shower?” Benedict murmured into Tom’s jugular notch.

“No, I put it back in my...” he grunted as he grasped for it over the side of the bed, “...suitcase, here.”

Once he had it in hand, Benedict took it from him and set it aside. He reached in through the fly of Tom’s pyjamas; Tom shoved his hand down the waistband of Benedict’s.

“How should we do it?” Benedict asked as they stroked each other. “I mean, how should we be...situated?”

“I’m fine with anything, save perhaps standing up in the shower. That’s worn a bit thin. Would you like me any particular way?”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it until now. How would on your front suit you? Nice and comfortable, no acrobatics.”

“Suits me fine.” Tom straightened himself out so he was lying properly on the bed, on his belly. Benedict straddled him, stretching himself out so as much of him was touching as much of Tom as possible. Tom sighed.

“Can’t see the look on your face, though,” Benedict said as he tugged at Tom’s pyjamas.

“Well, I can’t give it all up on the first date, can I? By the way, can you put a pillow under me? Might make it more comfortable for both of us.”

“Oh yes, probably a good idea.” Benedict leaned forward to reach for a pillow, and at the same time Tom lifted his hips to make room for it, and they collided in the most delightful way.

Benedict sat back on his heels to slide the pillow under Tom’s raised arse, and his cock twitched at such a fine round thing being offered. With both thumbs, he spread the cheeks to reveal the lovely pink pucker, which quivered, perhaps at the attention it was suddenly receiving, perhaps just because of the cool air. He popped the cap on the bottle of lube, and braced himself on one elbow so he could put some on his fingers whilst remaining close to Tom.

Tom flinched at the first touch, then immediately said, “Sorry. It’s cold is all.” So Benedict rubbed it against Tom’s skin until it had warmed to body temperature and Tom felt only the slipperiness of it. Then it was an easy little push to get the tip of his middle finger in, just to the first knuckle. He slipped it out, and then dipped it back in again, giving him a bit of a tease. Tom wasn’t a stranger to penetration, but that was no reason to rush things.

When he did slide the finger all the way in, Tom squirmed, though the noise he made indicated that it was a good squirm. “You’ve got long fingers,” he gasped.

Just by crooking the tip of this finger, Benedict found he could make excellent contact with Tom’s sweet spot. Listening to the varied noises Tom produced when he experimented with rubbing versus pushing versus massaging was good for a full ten minutes of entertainment.

When Benedict put a second finger in, though, and tried to continue on, Tom flinched. “Eh, two fingers is too...poky. Just put it in. I’m ready.”

Benedict slicked himself with the lube, then realised he wasn’t certain how to arrange himself in relation to Tom. First he tried leaning in while still straddling him, then he kneed in between Tom’s thighs, spreading them with his own. Neither felt like it was definitely the “proper” way to do it. “I don’t…” he stammered, then finally settled on having his legs outside Tom’s after all. He smoothed his hands up the backs of Tom’s thighs and over his buttocks, parting them as he went and exposing once again the now-glistening pink flesh. He placed the head of his cock against Tom’s arsehole. “Alright, I’m putting it in.”

He hesitated again. It suddenly felt like he hadn’t taken a breath in ages, and so he heaved a massive, anxious sigh into the space between Tom’s shoulder blades.

Tom turned his head and said over his shoulder, “I thought you were putting it in.”

“I _am_ putting it in. Don’t rush me.”

He pressed himself up against Tom again, and this time Tom tilted his hips and the first inch just slipped in. Benedict swore and slid the rest in, swore again.

Tom was amazed at how different Benedict's cock felt, compared to his toy. For one thing, it was _warm_. And he could feel it throbbing. Just barely, but yes. And though the head had some give to it as Benedict had entered him, the shaft was solid. Tom couldn’t clench around it as easily as he could his toy.

“How does it feel for you?” Tom asked.

“It certainly doesn’t feel like Percy Barclay pulling on my prick in the cleaners’ cupboard, I can tell you that much. What about you?”

“Well, I never knew Percy Barclay.”

Benedict laughed; God, he loved it when someone could make him laugh during sex. He finally started to give his cock with confidence, his nudges turning to proper pushes. And with each thrust, the firm pillow and springy mattress beneath pushed Tom right back up onto his cock. Glorious.

After a few minutes of jagged breaths and whispered one-word encouragements, Tom said, “If you let me up, I’ll show you a trick I learned.”

Benedict was too light-headed to ask for further clarification of that statement. Tom made an elongated “ha” sound as he gently pulled out. Tom pushed Benedict until he was lying flat on his back, then climbed on top of him. He sank down on Benedict’s cock and began to ride.

Benedict made a grab for Tom’s prick, but Tom batted his hand away. “Don’t touch me. I mean wait, no, here, grab me here.” He took Benedict by both wrists and guided his hands to his hips. “Grab me hard, and guide me.” Benedict did as he was told; though Tom was still doing most of the work, Benedict was now setting the pace. “Yes,” Tom breathed, “it’s alright to boss me around a bit.”

“I have learned that today, haven’t I.” Benedict gripped Tom harder, pushing him down on his cock as he thrust upwards. “Like that?” he said.

“Yes.”

More forcefully this time. “Like _that_?”

“ _Yesss_...” Tom bounced harder, flushed now from his cheekbones to his nipples, bent lewdly backward, belly and thighs taut. Lean muscles flexed under fair skin, gleaming but not dripping with perspiration, and from a tuft of strawberry-blond fuzz, his cock jutted out; it had a slight upward curve, but the way it swayed as he bounced made it look _heavy_.  “Oh, God, yes, that’s it. That’s-- right _there_ ,” he cried as he worked himself into a frenzy. On each downstroke, his arse tapped the tops of Benedict’s thighs, and each time he raised himself up, Benedict caught sight of the lube glistening in his own pubic hair, and for some reason this made his breath catch. He was immensely gratified to learn that Tom fucked with the same boundless, cheerful enthusiasm with which he pursued every other aspect of his life.

“When are you going to show me your trick?” he asked.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. “Give me a minute,” he said between desperate huffs. “And shut up, by the way, I need to concentrate to do it.”

Drops of pre-come emerged from the tip of Tom’s cock and landed just below Benedict’s navel. After several more hard bounces, Tom finally said, “Here it is, watch me. _Oh._ ” And he ejaculated, without even having been touched. He sighed with the release, and ground himself around on Benedict’s cock as ribbons of come shot out of his prick in big, delicious pulses.

Benedict had been doing a stellar job of patiently waiting to come whilst Tom bounced on his cock. But it was all over when he saw Tom squirt without a hand on him. He could feel Tom shivering inside and out, and he couldn’t hold out any longer; he grabbed Tom as hard as he could, pushing him down viciously as he came, wide-eyed and making noises that he would be embarrassed about when he remembered them later.

Tom collapsed forward, and lay still for a long while, partly because he wanted to continue to stay close to Benedict, partly because his thighs ached and he feared if he tried to move in any direction he would simply fall over. With a final little contraction, he pushed Benedict’s soft cock out of his body. Benedict sat up, held onto Tom, and gently rolled him to one side.

Benedict thought Tom looked fantastic when he was fucked-out: even after the sex-flush left his chest and the sweat evaporated from his skin, he retained a healthy glow, and he couldn’t seem to help grinning in a charmingly self-conscious way. People in films always seemed so dourly exhausted after sex, and the cinema was how Benedict, like many youths, had learned about how sex was “supposed to be.” It made him feel better about himself to lie next to someone who, like him, was unable to suppress giggles of delight afterwards.

“That was…amazing,” Benedict said, pausing just to echo Tom’s laugh. “You’re very talented, has anyone told you that?”

Tom blushed. “Thanks. Did it in the shower once, by accident, then taught myself.”

The thought of Tom in the shower, backing himself onto that dildo, using it to pleasure himself, grinding on it, and “accidentally” making himself come hands-free caused Benedict’s stomach to drop. His lips parted, but he made no sound. He tried to pull Tom close to him, but Tom gently pried himself free, saying, “Listen, I’ve got to get up. I need to tidy up a bit. Just for a minute, I promise.”

As Tom staggered to the bathroom, Benedict called after him: “So, um...” Tom paused and waited for the rest. Benedict got suddenly shy. He murmured, “Were you serious about that…pillow fort thing?”

Tom rewarded Benedict for his courage with a huge smile. “I was as serious as a German film festival, darling. If you run to your room and get your pillows and sheets, we can get started on one right away.”

Imbued with a new energy, Benedict rolled off the bed and felt about for his shirt and pyjamas. Oh, now the _real_ fun was about to begin.  
  
  
  
  
*****  


If you’ve enjoyed this fic, why not check out the sequel, [Dirty Weekend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/711851)?

 


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